Giving In
by Love Your Kiwi
Summary: And in the middle of it all stood a teenager most of you would recognize, but he was never the hero of the story. [flirting.HarryDraco]


**Warnings. **Boy love. Don't like it, don't read it.

**Disclaimer.** All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

**.x.**

Now that he was standing there with bloodstained hands, his wand shaking between his fingers as the only sign of fear, he finally figured out what he was fighting for. It wasn't for good or evil, it wasn't even for what was right or wrong. The field beneath his feet had turned to mud, and all around him lay bodies, some still twitching with life as the rain continued its onslaught. Wizards of both the light and dark had fallen, innocent victims who never stood a chance in this war.

And in the middle of it all stood a teenager most of you would recognize, but he was never the hero of the story. He was portrayed as an arrogant git that made fun of the half bloods, who never gave a damn about anyone besides his own reflection. But times have changed now, that much is obvious if you could just look him in the eye. His robes are slashed, clinging wetly to porcelain flesh; his immaculate blond hair is plastered to his forehead, some pieces flying whenever the wind blows hard enough.

He has a dirty little secret, his own reasons for fighting with his Hogwarts companions instead of slaughtering them like his father's people had. And now that he thought about it, all those years of playing the snob, being the one that everyone despised, it dawned on him just how juvenile they had all been, especially himself towards one Harry Potter.

Speaking of the Boy Who Lived, you won't find him among the dead. In fact, he's standing right in front of an old foe, someone who had offered a hand in malicious friendship when they were both 11. The dark-haired teen had never stopped wondering how things would be different if he had been kind to the Malfoy heir instead of standoffish. He could be considered just as cruel as the blond, and that scared him, since he was always idolized for his heroic behavior.

Heroes didn't turn anyone away; they weren't complete prats to those who were in need. How could anyone call Harry a hero? It's quite simple really, because he just saved the life of his own adolescent rival, the one boy that everyone else had condemned as Voldemort's next shoe-licking pet.

You see, to Draco, Harry was worth fighting for. Under all the cold looks and biting words, there was a boy who wanted to be loved, to be cared for. He had suffered thorough a miserable childhood at the hand of his father, and he was tired of being cast off, isolated among his own kind. I suppose you could even say that Harry was the light at the end of Draco's tunnel because the blond believed it, with all his heart.

In the final moments, Voldemort had slunk to Draco, and in his raspy, barely audible voice, he had commanded the treacherous teen to kill Potter, to end the war in their favor. After all, with the Golden Boy gone, the side of good would crumble and succumb to the darkness. He had stalled, pretending to cower in the presence of the Dark Lord, his mind making believe that he hadn't just slaughtered Goyle's father, that he hadn't murdered Pansy without a second thought.

His little stint bought the time that Harry had needed to sneak up behind the decaying man, stick his wand in his back and whisper "Avada Kerdava."

Green light encompassed the ragged robes, burning them and the being inside to a crisp, leaving nothing but a pile of faintly glowing ashes in its' wake. 

Draco stood there dumbfounded, waiting for the Wizarding World's savior to turn on him and repeat the spell, but it never happened. Cracking open eyes he didn't even realize he had squeezed shut, the blond gasped as a pair of arms encircled him, pulling him roughly against a lean body as soaked as his own.

It took a minute to register that those arms belonged to Harry Potter and that the emerald-eyed teen wasn't trying to squeeze the life out of him, but was actually hugging him, embracing him, holding him close like he was the most precious gift in the world. Confusion faded to self-consciousness, which in turn melted to pleasant warmth that radiated from the tanned arms.

He hadn't been held like this in ages, and it seemed to be true for the other boy as well. Sure, he had seen the Mudblood girl give him hugs on random occasions, but those were different, it was plainly obvious in the way that they leaned heavily on each other, their fatigued bodies seeming to melt under the pressure of the rain. Sinking to their knees, Draco tightened his arms around Harry's shoulders, burying his face into his old rival's neck, desperately seeking more of that delicious heat.

Now wasn't the time to worry about right or wrong, nor all the corpses that were strewn across the field like forgotten toys after a toddler's fit. The fact that the Weasel and Mudblood were slogging their way towards the duo meant nothing to them.

Somehow, after all the bloodshed and years of verbal abuse, they had found solace, a perhaps miniscule escape from the lives; all in the arms of their own greatest enemy… the one they loved.


End file.
